


I’m Banksy

by KittyMotor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Meet-Ugly, One Shot, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 11:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyMotor/pseuds/KittyMotor
Summary: A stranger forces his way into Karkat’s car at a stop light. He’d be more mad if the stranger weren’t hot.





	I’m Banksy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> My first meet-ugly.  
> Prompt by mintboy, my boyfriend.  
> Rated teen for language.

I was startled out of my thoughts by a frantic tap on the window of my stopped car. I tear my eyes from the red light and turn down the sweet tones of Céline Dion, hoping to god that it isn’t a cop. Thankfully it isn’t a cop, but a guy in a red hoodie. The hood is pulled up and tightened just a bit; he’s wearing shades, and his blonde hair pokes out from under the hood. His lips are pulled in a thin line. I roll down the window and open my mouth to ask him what he’s bothering me for, but he immediately reaches into the car, pulls up the lock and opens the door, easily sliding into the passenger seat.

“Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” I shout at him even though he’s right next to me and he shushes me, putting his hand in front of my face while he rolls up the window with his free hand. I smack his hand out of the way and raise my pointer finger to begin yelling at him more, but he interrupts me before I can get further.

“Dude, just drive. The light’s green,” he drawls. His accent is distinctly southern and I take in more of his face. Around his shades I can see a smattering of freckles and there’s a scar running across his right cheek, along with a larger one down the right side of his lower lip. I hate that I can’t help thinking that he’s attractive. I look between the light and him before glaring and exhaling with a slight growl.

“Only if you tell me who the fuck you are and why the hell you basically broke into a stranger’s car.” I have no idea why the hell I’m going with it, but I release the brake and roll forward in hopes that the person behind me won’t lay on the horn.

“Yes, yes, fine! Just go-” the man is cut off by the person behind me doing exactly what I was trying to avoid and I white-knuckle the wheel and roll down the driver’s-side window. I shove my hand out of the car and give them the bird.

“I WAS FUCKING WORKING ON IT YOU PIECE OF GODDAMN GARBAGE! I HOPE YOU COME HOME TO FIND THAT SOMEONE BROKE INTO YOUR HOUSE AND STOLE ALL OF YOUR FAMILY PHOTOS ALONG WITH BREAKING YOUR COMPUTER SO YOU NEVER CAN GET ANY OF THEM BACK!” Is it extra? Yes, absolutely. Did they provoke it by doing more than a friendly tooty-toot to get my attention? Abso-fucking-lutely they did, 100 percent. It takes me a moment to register that my new passenger is trying not to completely lose his shit over my outburst, his hand clamped firmly over his mouth to try to stop the breathy, almost wheezing laugh from escaping. I have to tear away my gaze so I don’t rear-end the car in front of me. Damn him for being stupidly charming.

“Holy shit, dude,” he barely makes out between breaths, “do you do that every time?” I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment, muttering a ‘fuck off’ as I twist my hands on the wheel, focusing on the road. “No fucking way, you do! That’s amazing, oh my god. Tell me, is it a different thing every time?” He shifts slightly in the seat to face me better- fucker doesn’t even have his seatbelt on- and there’s a grin stretching across his face. He bounces like a child waiting for my answer.

“It’s a different thing every time,” I respond quickly, “and put on your goddamn seatbelt, dicklamp.” He must have not realized, because he immediately settles back into the seat with a small ‘oh shit’ as he clicks the seatbelt into place. “Now could you tell me why the fuck you’re in my car?” He bristles just enough for me to see in my peripheral and looks in the side mirror before turning to me, his face the perfect example of dead seriousness.

“Well, you see, man,” he begins dramatically and I can’t help but shift my eyes over to him, “I’m Banksy.” There’s a pause of pure silence and I feel my eye twitch. I pull the car over to the curb and throw on my hazards.

“Get out of my fucking car, asshole,” I practically spit the words. I don’t even bother looking at him.

“What? No wait- fuck- I’m sorry, that was a stupid joke-”

“You fucking  _ think _ ?” I hiss and turn to him, knowing my face is that of pure rage. He shoves off his hood to reveal his mussed hair, carding his hand through it and then clasps his hands in front of him as a plea. 

“Please don’t kick me out of your car, man, I’ll be serious with you this time I promise, but please just keep driving to wherever, it was a stupid joke, I really am sorry.” His voice was genuinely distressed and I could see him barely shifting his head to look behind us out the back windscreen. I groan and rub my face with both hands before merging back into traffic, turning off my blinkers. He sighs and sags back into the chair with relief, smiling just a bit. “Thanks, man.” Despite his relief he’s still tense, and he starts picking the chipped black nail polish from his cuticles and nails. “The name’s Dave, actually; Dave Strider.” I hum in response. “I’m no Banksy, but I am actually a street artist.” I raise my eyebrows, not expecting that. I briefly look him over again and I see paint splotches on his torn skinny jeans and a few specks on his hoodie.

“And you’re in my car because…?” I prompt after a few beats of silence outside of the quiet  _ chip, chip _ of him picking his nails.

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t want to get caught by the cops.” I barely restrain myself from hitting the brakes. I quickly look over at him and I can feel my eyebrows knitting together with confusion and surprise.

“You’re wanted by the fucking police?” My voice pitches with the question and he sucks in a breath.

“Well, painting on public property ain’t exactly legal, my guy-”

“Karkat,” I say. Why the fuck was I telling him my name?  _ He’s a wanted man! Fucking idiot! _

“Doing street art is illegal, Karkat,” he repeats without missing a beat, “and I really don’t feel like doing jail time for petty shit like this. My twink ass wouldn’t make it over there for very long; I’d be in deep shit.” He half-jokes with a sigh and picks more of his nail polish, tapping his feet on the floor.

“Don’t you have someone to bail you out?” That’s a thing, right? Family and friends bail their family and friends out of jail for their self expression- at least I think. 

“Yeah, but my brother would be fucking pissed if he had to do that shit again.” He gets a pained look on his face at the mention of his brother. Must not be that great a relationship. “And there’s no way in hell I’m calling up my sister out east even though she’d do it because that’d be a whole fucking ordeal- so…” He trails off, making a vague gesture with his hands.

“Well- fucking- you know what?” He looks over at me from his seat. “That sounds like a lot to unpack there, so rather than doing that, let’s just throw out the whole goddamn suitcase and not think about it because you’re not going to jail.” I venture a sort-of sideways smirk at him, feeling my snakebites poke out just a little more. I see him smile widely, now, and his posture straightens.

“Really? You won’t, like, report me or anything like that?” His tone is so excited and he genuinely seems like a nice person.

“I don’t see why not. It sounds like you’ve got enough shit on your plate anyway.” I explain, and before I see it coming he throws his arms around my neck in an awkward, sideways hug. I have to shove him off quickly in order to not get into an accident.

“Oh thank you, thank you, thank you Karkles,” I scoff at the nickname. “Seriously, man, I don’t know how to repay you for doing this for me; I couldn’t have picked a better person to be my getaway guy.” He coughs a little and I see a blush dust his cheeks before he offers me a fistbump.

“Fucking seriously?” I snicker and return it. “The fuck is this, 2009?”

“Hell yeah, man. Gotta keep up the cool-but-artsy guy image, y’know?”

We drive for a while longer before I offer to just take him back to his own place. We fill the silence in between with casual conversation and quips; it feels like we actually get along well in spite of him clearly trying to push my buttons. His apartment complex is a little run down and not in the best neighborhood, but what else could you expect for an artist? He goes to open the door of the car and I grab him by the arm, my brain freezing as he looks back at me.

“I, uh,”  _ way to be eloquent, dipshit, _ “You said that you didn’t know how to repay me for not getting you arrested, right?” He pauses and I can feel his eyes on me from behind his shades.

“Uhh, yeah? Why, d’you have something in mind?” I can feel my heart beating hard and I swallow thickly with nerves. I quickly dig a pen and paper from the arm rest between the front seats, scribbling down my name and phone number. I do my best not to throw it at him, but I can’t help the tremble in my hand as I hold it out for him to take. 

“Maybe you could call me and, I dunno, show me some of your art? I can get us dinner, too if you’re interested?” I see his eyebrows raise as he looks from the paper to my face. A smile spreads across his face slowly as he takes it and nods. 

“I am definitely fucking interested.” He slides out of the seat and leans into the car before shutting the door, tilting his head ever so slightly.  _ Cute _ . “You free Friday?” I barely think before I’m saying yes. 

_ It’s a date. _


End file.
